


how the ghost of you clings

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Category: Ozmafia!! (Visual Novel)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Kyrie POV, Multi, Obsession, Recursion, Slight Yandere, Sorry Not Sorry, i guess you could also read this as soulmates au maybe, mostly kyrie caramia and brothel endings, reset theory fic, spoilers for most of the routes obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: “Tell me Fuka-chan, how did it feel making me love you and then leaving me behind?”She tilts her head, yawns. Drops her head back to his chest, muffling her belated reply as she traces foreign shapes onto the skin of his naked abdomen. “Like tearing apart a puzzle before someone holding the last piece finishes it.”“Then we're not so different after all, dear.”





	how the ghost of you clings

**Author's Note:**

> I understand that many elements of Ozmafia are tied into the Italian culture and language, but to preserve the Japanese roots, as well as the strangeness of Fuka’s name, I’ve had Kyrie call her Fuka-chan on multiple occasions, which I think is fitting of someone who is as condescending as he is.
> 
> Also I haven't finished all the routes, but I have a gist of what happens. Weird how Kyrie is around for a lot of them, huh? Kinda reminds me of Tei from Nameless in a way...

 

One morning he wakes up and his bed is empty, cold. The sheets are barely rumpled. It's early and a cold fog is still over the territory of famiglia Oz, biting into his bones despite the many layers of clothing he’s chosen to wear for the day.

Kyrie looks out his windows to the thicket of trees on the property. The crows hidden in the branches chatter around him amongst themselves and remind him of a time when they were his only companions. A gunshot erupts in the silence and they take flight, a dark mass in the early morning sky. It’s a chilling omen of discord from the forest realms, from the heretics beyond their walls they’ve long since written off. Today will probably be another day of unrest. People will die, discussions will be had, contracts will be renegotiated.

He does not look forward to the massive amounts of paperwork.

Caramia convinces him to come out with him on an early stroll of the territory to assess business relations, despite his somewhat sour attitude he can't place the root of. He accepts the invitation, curiosity getting the better part of him what ill-omen the crows foretold earlier.

Then _she’s_ there, panting, eyes dilated. The delicious tang of her fear nearly palpable in the morning air. He trips her and Caramia catches her, but no one catches him as they look at each other awkwardly. Her eyes dart to the mint-colored fringe hiding his right eye as he laughs at her, pawns her off to Caramia.

Just a girl, and a stupid one at that. 

When Caramia tells him to escort her to their mansion so he can fight Caesar safely, he grips the clueless girl’s hand and leads her in the opposite direction she came. As they run through the streets and down the crimson bricks to the Oz mansion, he tries to fight the feeling that somewhere deep inside he _knows_ her. 

It's irrational, unlikely. He never forgets anything,  _ever._

They both just met and they both cannot remember each other or their past.

But the feeling persists.

 

* * *

 

Things become more interesting once he quickly realizes that the girl they have found is, without question, one of the most moronic people he has ever met.

Not that it's entirely a problem for him, her failings. She's stupid, but not insufferably. Helpful to an almost pathological degree, which pleases Caramia to no end. Winning the favor of the don settles at least whether she'll stay, and Axel seems to like her well enough. Though you'd hardly be able to tell by his stoic answers about her when asked. 

And Kyrie?

Oh, he _delights_ in toying with the newcomer.

She doesn’t even have the wherewithal or sense to recognize her fate before it's too late. Often she's already deep in his trap before she feels it snap shut around her, and yet takes his games and jokes with a certain amount of grace one could only attribute to someone so vacuous they don’t even understand their plight.

No wonder even Caesar called her prey. That’s exactly what she is: _prey._

The others notice it too, comment on how he gravitates towards her. How she's the object of his interests to an almost obsessive degree. How they agree with each other, despite the differences. How she constantly tells others underneath the malice and the snark, _he’s a good man._

He’s not even sure she believes the naïveté of her words.

He goes along with it, tormenting her daily but always aware of her presence, her child-like innocence, malleability. He wants to teach her, mould her into something, yet preserve her stubborn streak. Like keeping a wild animal as a pet.

Wrapping his arms around her, today's lesson is as much about teaching her how to shoot a gun, as it is to make fun of her poor aim for his pleasure. But she astounds him by lining up a clean shot, a natural. He's left further off-kilter when the memories of his arms previously around her blindside him

 _—alone, the two of them under the night sky, whispered hushed endearments. He hoped for once—_ just once _—he had finally found someone who would be able to endure living with a man like him, someone who would not expect him to change because of something as foolish as love—_

It's as clear to him as any conclusion he’s ever come to. 

They used to be lovers.

 

* * *

 

"You're fine. Fit as your last exam, in fact. Though I probably should be over to the mansion soon to examine the others."

"Nothing at all?"

He frowns, looking at the masked doctor sweep around the clinic, collecting various instruments into a black bag.  
  
"If you've suffered any recent concussions, I was not made aware of them," Robin Hood replies, shooing him away. "Do let Caramia know I'll be over within the week for the exams of the soldati, will you?"

Her amnesia is easier to explain than his, why he only foggily remembers her in disjointed segments, snatches of time that fade to black quickly before changing interspersed in between his concrete memories. He never forgets anything, but when he tries to think about his past, about the girl specifically, his normally clear memory becomes fuzzy around the edges like a blurry watercolor.

When he doesn't move from where he's seated, Robin sighs. Rubs a hand against the mask at his face in clear exasperation. 

"Have you given thought to perhaps your gift wasn't so permanent at all?"

What a laughable notion.

_"Impossible."_

"Things given can be just as easily taken away, consigliere. Now go, I need to attend to a house call."

The thought Robin leaves him with is not a comforting one. 

Kyrie finally storms out of the clinic, back to the mansion. Fuka-chan greets him cheerily at the door, but he has no time to entertain her. He has to think, has to reflect. And he can't do that with her currently on his mind.

She opens the door to his pistol pointed directly at her forehead, a puzzled look crossing her face as the cold steel of the muzzle presses against her pale skin.

"Did it cross your mind perhaps one day you'll answer this door to a gun in your face?"

She hesitantly bites her lip and it only irritates him further how cute she is when she's being crushed under someone else's heel, especially his.

"But I knew it was you, Mr. Kyrie. I saw your purple coat through the windows."

"Spying on me then? How inconsiderate. Maybe I should shoot you after all."

"This doesn't feel like a joke anymore," she replies, beginning to tearing up at his unnecessary cruelty as if on cue, but he doesn't stop to savor the moment. Doesn't watch her dry her eyes. 

Instead, he sweeps past her to immediately retreat down the hallway and to his room.

Locking the door behind him, he rummages through his belongings. He must find something long-since hidden, one of the truly rare treasures he keeps. He rarely reminisces about the past, unless its to torment Axel or Caramia. The thought of going back to being a brainless scarecrow in a field unappealing ground to retread even in the best of moods.

Once he finds it, the sight of it makes his stomach churn uneasily. His saving grace and potential downfall, both wrapped in one. This one stone held in his hands is the reason he's a changed man. Why he wants for nothing now, rarely wishes other than for his ever-increasing boredom to go away. Twirling the ring on the tip of one gloved finger, he looks into the crimson depths once it stops. Wonders how such an ordinary looking thing changed his life so dramatically. How easy it would be to take it away.

Wonders what it might look on someone’s finger. A very certain someone’s slender fingers, if perhaps she earned it being there.

Why the thought of entrusting that idiot his most prized possession crosses his mind, he does not know.

He hides it away even better this time so it's safe and sound from everyone, apart from his own folly.

 

* * *

 

His daydreaming was for nothing.

She's chosen the stupid lion as her lover, despite the amount of time she's spent with him and he can't help but applaud the fact she has at least that much sense in her head, even if she's such a strange girl to have led him on like that. To endure him for naught.

How she spends her time is no longer his concern, he supposes.

He's hardly jealous. It’s not like she isn’t still constantly around to be made fun of and to move around to his liking. And when that’s not enough, both Axel and Caramia dismiss his advances towards her as nothing more than the consigliere’s well-known cruel streak easily taken out on a simpleton girl.

 

* * *

 

 It takes a while but Caramia is the second to notice, despite the idiotic animal he is.

"She smells so familiar, Kyrie. I can't explain it. She reminds me of something, of someone. It draws me to her, and I'm not exactly sure why."  
  
"She reminds you of someone else? _That's_ why you like her?"

Caramia throws up his hands in frustration. "Yes! No! I don't know. No, of course, I like her because she's Ms. Fuka. She's nice, kind, _charming—"_

He doesn't bother stifling his laughter.

"Please, by all means, continue listing synonyms of the same word to describe the woman you claim to love."

"Of course I love her!" Caramia growls. "And it _is_ because she's herself. I just— _Dammit, Kyrie_ —you're twisting my words again!"

"Of course, I am." 

He's already seen how she pretends to be happy. Knows exactly how to strike.

Kudos for the effort though from both of them, though. It's almost convincing enough to not see the cracks in their relationship. The girl's too giving, Caramia too dull. The young lion's never been particularly bright or perceptive, especially when it came to women—even ones as straightforward in their intentions as Fuka-chan.

Caramia lets out a confused sigh. Head in his hands he looks up at Kyrie, his conflicted face running a thrill through the other man at his friend's dilemma. It's completely natural for someone as simple as a dumb lion to not realize that the fabric of time is being rewritten around him, around all of them. Even someone as smart as him trying to explain what he believes is the real truth about the girl is far stranger than even their own pasts, and that’s saying something.

The staggeringly idiotic part, though, is the fact Caramia is stubbornly staying focused on his own problems being the cause.

So Kyrie casually suggests something, planting the seed deep in his mind of pasts not yet entirely forgotten.

"Does she happen to... remind you of someone we used to know?"

Caramia immediately picks up the meaning once he says it. It's far more logical even in his oafish brain than the scent of a past-lover lost in time.

Once he realizes that Fuka-chan has been within earshot of the conversation, he smiles widely hearing her hurried steps back down the hallway. He couldn't have asked for Caramia to play the part of a conflicted boyfriend better.

_And with such disarming and disgusting earnesty!_

If he plays his cards right after tonight, she will come to him for answers. She’ll reject Caramia and come running back into his arms. 

This time the odds are in his favor.

 

* * *

 

Except he’s wrong.

_Again._

Instead, her reckless streak remains as bold as ever. The girl has thrown any self-preservation instinct to the wind to pursue the absolute dregs of society on the other side of the wall. 

Caramia’s growing frustration with the situation would be amusing, were it not Kyrie's own as well. He’s beginning to suspect Axel knows something is amiss, but prying anything from the romantically aloof robot will be about as likely as going out into the town square and professing his undying love for Fuka-chan himself. The present is beginning to just barely warp around the edges with every decision the reckless idiot of a girl makes. Eventually, even the less perceptive others will notice too.

And Fuka-chan acts blissfully unaware each time she wakes from her coma, renewed in her efforts. The people around performing like actors with a script. The parts they need to play, each time it happens again.

Normally he'd invite such interesting developments, but the girl still is a variable he cannot track, cannot predict. 

“She has terrible taste in men,” Caramia tells him after they've finished up their paperwork for the day, a broken record forced to play each time the same tune over and over again. 

He snorts at that, looking over the report that Caramia just read that she’s been spotted in the company of the very man they originally saved her from, and safe. He doesn't really care who she's been found with but plays the part for Caramia anyway. He sighs dramatically, taking his hat off for a moment to press it to his chest in mock-concern.

“I would expect nothing more from an idiot such as herself, though her tastes seem to be running quite crude. One could say _animalistic_ as of late.”

Caramia raises an eyebrow at his consigliere, but he just shoots a knowing grin back at him.

If he’s going to suffer to her whims, the least he can do is have fun kicking Caramia while he’s down with him.

 

* * *

 

Life becomes the choppy, staccato beat of lovers found and discarded, one after the other. He must not have made her happy enough, at least by her own logic. That's what caused her to start over.

But perhaps no one will make her truly happy at this rate.

That malicious thought, that ever pervasive feeling of _Schadenfreude,_ is enough to keep him running.

He watches her pursuit of Axel and its inevitable conclusion, a small smile on his lips as he pushes her like a pawn around a chessboard away from him and to Scarlet next, once he sees the pattern. Her promises flimsy as threads easily snapped between his nimble fingers. He figures out who she will run to next and how to ruin it, just for the fun of seeing her cry.

And she does.

A lot.

It's great, really.

But then the pattern abruptly comes to a halt, their silent game of cat and mouse backfiring magnificently.

A fault in the plan, her head demurely resting in Dorian’s lap. The fire he so enjoyed from her ignorance is gone, extinguished by the man in front of him. He almost breaks character, cool façade almost dropping at the sheer audacity of the man in front of him deigning himself worthy of stealing her away from him.

Kyrie grits his teeth when Dorian offers her pliant body to him, snappy reply for once dying in his throat.

He may have said multiple times he’d love to clip her wings, that he enjoyed watching her cry,  but she still had her free will to walk away after from him at any time.

Actual servility doesn't suit her.

Thankfully, she thinks the same. Has some shred of intelligence in that head of hers to get herself out of the situation. Because after leaving the brothel and falling asleep in his own bed alone, the next morning he wakes up early to a cold fog over the territory of famiglia Oz and knows they will meet for the first time.

Again.

 

* * *

 

He keeps a more critical eye on the brothel this time, makes sure to pique her curiosity about the establishment but tries to keep her from ending up under Dorian's thumb. He won't stop her from her stupidity if it happens again, but perhaps the same outcome can be avoided altogether with the right encouragement and words to each party.

It takes a few weeks, and one falsified death certificate. He actually wonders after weeks of her death if the whole thing is truly over, but then she walks down the steps as the brothel's new mistress and owner.

She's truly a sight for sore eyes, even though her own have hardened since the last time he saw her. Her smile is now sharp, cruel as Dorian’s own when her gaze falls on Kyrie standing at the foot of the mansion's stairs.

“Mistress Fuka.”

Manboy presents her with a flourish, twisting the knife deeper as he twists his words to their beloved. “It seems Lord Kyrie here is interested in your company tonight upon hearing about the change in ownership of the establishment.”

She laughs. And it's a harsh sound, not the girlish laughter she had before. “I was under the impression that the consigliere did not _partake_ during his brothel visits.”

Lifting her hand for him to press a delicate kiss to the rings on her pale fingers, she looks at him quizzically.

“Lord Kyrie?”

“I find the thought of such lascivious gossip entertaining. Do you not, mistress Fuka?”

“Past Fuka-chan then, are we?”

She clicks her tongue and Manboy's eyes narrow to slits at the familiarity as Kyrie grins. He bows to her deeply and as ill-mannered as ever, giving her fleeting title the mock-respect it deserves as he plays along.

“What of our pasts, _Fuka-chan?”_  

Sadly she holds her head high and doesn’t take the bait, turning instead to Manboy.

“Clear my appointments for tomorrow and make sure Alfani and Dorian are suitably entertained tonight so I am not disturbed, Manboy," she orders and he nods in reply, only hesitating momentarily to squeeze her fingers quickly before letting go. She presses a chaste kiss to his lips then dismisses him, as he looks at Kyrie impassively.

“Come,” she says, and he does.

Up the stairs and down a hall, deep into the belly of the mansion on Oscar Wilde street. She links her fingers with his. The same ones he once held saving her. The same ones he kissed earlier and Manboy squeezed so fleetingly, as she leads him.

“I didn’t expect you here so quickly,” she says, once the door is closed. She sighs, dropping the haughty act of the mistress of the mansion. “Were you expecting to rescue me this time? You’re a bit late.”

“Hardly,” he laughs, taking off his hat and unstrapping his pistol onto the bedstand, so he can settle down on the plush bed in front of him. There are two open chairs in the room, but he'd prefer to see her flustered at the thought of him in her bed again.

“You’re doing well for yourself.”

“Well, you know the saying, _kill or be killed._ ”

“Fuck or get fucked?” He adds slyly, and she rolls her eyes. Bites her lip until it flushes a darker shade of pink.

“Is that what this is about then, sex?”

“You came looking for me,” she replies back, pouring two cups of tea from the service on the table. Holding the cup delicately between her fingers, its more refined than he remembers, more like him. She sniffs it once before passing it to him and he inhales the divine scent of well-made tea, as she holds her own and makes no move to join him on the bed.

It reminds him of a blend he showed her how to make, a lingering fragment in what feels like another lifetime ago.

She must know.

“I liked you much better as a simpleton, Fuka.”

“So did Dorian. That didn’t work out so well for him in the end.”

“I see.”

She peers at him, expression inscrutable. Certainly more self-aware than the last time they met. Maybe she does finally have some sense in her brain, after everything.

It'd be a shock, a delightful shock. 

“How come you’re the only one who knows? No one else seems to know what’s happening.”

He sips his tea, gives her a small shrug in reply. “Superior intelligence? Though you aren't nearly clever enough. Our idiotic lion is catching on, slow as he is.”

“I'll never understand your quarrel with him. He's a good man, Kyrie."

"Quarrel?" He snorts. "Who said anything about a quarrel? I could thoroughly manhandle Caramia verbally. He's well aware of the fact." 

She makes a humming noise, turning back to her tea and that's when he snares her.

Setting down his teacup gently on her bedstand, he advances on her, backing her up until she’s against a wall. Startled by his actions, her teacup falls to the floor, pieces of china shattering at their feet and sloshing tea on the tiles. Onto their shoes. He wonders if it stings on her bare feet, hopes it does. 

"The actual question you wanted to ask me—what was it?" 

Bracketing her between his arms he’s close enough he can feel the delicious shiver that runs up her body. Tugs a lock of her flaxen hair between his fingers hard enough she lets out a quiet gasp of pain he's craved being the cause of so deeply since meeting her. "I'm surprised how indirect you've become in my absence."

"If you know what I’m doing," she finally grits out. "Why don’t you stop me? Is it because you don't know how?”

He can feel the press of her bosom when she finally breathes in, her rabbit-quick heartbeat thumping against his own chest as he leans over her.

“No, its because I want to see how this plays out, love,” he whispers into the shell of her ear, nipping at it before he continues. “You won't end up in such positions of power if you keep rolling the dice. And I’ll be there to watch your anguish when you fall, every single time.” 

* * *

 

“How do you manage knowing she was once yours?” He asks Caramia after a few drinks in silence. The alcohols finally prying the tight lock he has on his emotions. He flags the bartender for another drink, his glass already uncharacteristically empty. Though he’s no lightweight like Axel, he’s never quite been a heavy drinker either.

At least until now.

Maybe this time he is.

Tonight they're out drinking in his bar. Probably not the most prudent ideas, but it certainly will shake things up accepting the dumb lion’s invitation out for the night. Its been a rough couple— _days? Weeks?_ — he’s no longer quite sure, the amount of time before a rewind is never exactly the same.

Since their last standoff at the brothel, he's retreated further into political paperwork or his casino during the day, his bar during the night. His uncommon roses he's been tending amplifying the strangeness of the situation. They're now forever in a state of dormancy, almost ready to bloom or wither away depending on his particular whims. This time the roses are wilting and it's fitting that the petals already have fallen to the floor and have been trampled by careless feet, much like many emotions all over the kingdom as of late.

Caramia, like Fuka, still manages to surprise Kyrie on occasion. He takes off his coat and quickly orders a gin and tonic only to brood in silence, shedding his normally outgoing self despite the bar's cheery atmosphere and familiar faces that would easily engage him in conversation.

It’s taking its toll on them, all of them. The rumors, the reports. The fragments of memories she's left too many of them with, in her destructive wake. The chaos that's ensued. They've all changed because of her, even him. What a pity.

_He told her not to try and change him and instead changed himself because of her absence._

_Pathetic._

The bark of laughter that erupts from Caramia is jarring, startlingly out of character.

“She was never mine,” Caramia replies. “I enjoyed the opportunities we had and will always strive to keep her safe, but I knew she was never mine.” He tips back the last of his drink, before getting up and shrugging back on his heavy coat. He clasps Kyrie on the shoulder, as he stands.

“Don't worry so much, friend. You never forget your first. The experience, it changes you whether you want it to or not.”

Caramia's eyes look far away when Kyrie finally looks up from his drink to meet them, unfocused. He takes the opportunity to pluck the offending hand off his shoulder and Caramia chuckles, leaving him to his drinking alone as he walks out of the bar.

“How disgustingly sentimental,” he mutters into his own drink once the other man is gone, downing it quickly and ordering another.

 

* * *

 

It becomes increasingly clear Caramia was at least somewhat right in his observations. It's at least the sixth time they've done this and Fuka-chan is back in their lives again, finding more ways to make them repeat the past over and over.

He teases her the same, though he knows her answers by heart now. It’s still more fun than not. But now there's a sharp pang of longing for the unpredictable past of their interactions.

The girl’s back to being moronic as ever but now its tempered with a glimmer of the woman he met at the brothel being there when she smiles at him slyly, goes about her days. She says nothing of his odd behavior. Because that's what he's always been to all of them, _odd._

Cruel.

Sadistic. 

And yet, she's the one that torments them all with the promise of a happy ending unfulfilled, not him.

And it renews him, her casual sadism. That they might both be playing on the same chessboard after all. Not as equals. No, she's not there yet. But she’s getting sharper at the rules of the game, how to play by them and how to defy them. Dances around Kyrie now, taking extra consideration to emphasize how dumb she is and how much she believes in him to the point he can’t help but laugh at how obviously transparent the whole charade is. But no one else catches on or calls them out on it. Its as though they live in a bubble, trapped with their secrets no one else knows.

And he likes that, their secrets they share. Their little games no one else is privy to.

Just like now.

He's only just gotten back from putting a fresh new batch of bullet holes in the trees on the property, hands still smelling of ozone and gunpowder even after taking his gloves off. He's taking the bullets out of his pistol when she storms into his room. It's only been a few days after her vows with Caramia. Tossing off her wedding ring along with her clothes, she lets them fall ungracefully to the ground as he's still unloading his gun. Advances on him, the chastity she once approached him with long since gone to the wind.

Standing back and enjoying the show, he makes no move to stop her, participate or put down his weapon. He can see the brand of the famiglia crest still healing on her back as she continues shucking off articles of clothing, an angry red against her otherwise unmarred flesh as she approaches him. 

“What if I told you no?” He asks with a sadistic smile, holding the hand she's placed on his face in a grip hard enough the bones in her wrist grind together. He wants to press his pistol in his other hand against her cheek until she cries again but resists the delightful temptation.

“You've always been a liar,” she hisses, moving his bangs aside to look into both of his eyes and he can only imagine what she sees in the eye that constantly betrays him, his lingering fault.“Your mouth says no, Kyrie. But your eye says yes.”

“That's hardly consent. Are you really so bored with him you'd rather keep me warm tonight?”

“Yes! I went too far, but if we—if I—” A slight tinge of panic creeps into her voice as her other hand scrabbles at the fastenings of his clothes he stops just to torment her further. “We could start over. _I think._ ”

“You think?"

He finally lets go of her hand, stepping back. This development was entirely unexpected. Fuka-chan perhaps not being as cruel or intelligent as he had thought, had hoped. Her dismissals of everyone not as casual now, if she isn’t the direct cause. "So I am to assume you’re not actually controlling this?”

She exhales, sighing as she drops her hands in defeat to cover her nakedness.

“Not exactly."

He makes an impatient noise as she dithers, tapping his heel on the floor as she blushes, arms wrapped protectively around her body.

"Well, go on. I haven't all day to listen to you like your husband."

"It's like—I get this itchy feeling. Like I'm being rubbed the wrong way or wearing scratchy clothing. Like I'm fighting my fate and I know it. Then I wake up and everything starts over again," she sighs. "But I still never know who I was before, just what I did, who I was with. Something prevents me from picking the same choices in the exact same way again.”

“Is that how it felt with me?" He asks, voice low enough its a growl. "Did you fight our fate?”

“I— it wouldn’t let me choose again once I questioned it."

Her pupils widen, the sheen of unshed tears beginning to well in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Kyrie. I really am."

“For me or for yourself?”

She keeps her lips held in a tight line.

It's only then he puts the gun down and reaches out for her, once the first tear falls from her eyes. Swipes it away with his thumb, smearing it down her cheek as he presses her naked body to his clothed one.

"Keep crying, just like that."

"Okay," she sniffles into his shoulder, but he forces her chin back up. So he can see her, so he can watch the tears stream from her face.

And they do.

When her lips finally meet his, she tastes like salt and sweetness. Like something lost in the sands of time. He devours her mouth, none-too-gently, leaving a split and bruises in his wake as he maps her body while it's still in front of him. Before it's gone away again and they're forced to repeat the cycle over and over.

No. He won't let her go after this, he can't.

Even if it means they'll both be destroyed, he can't.

 

* * *

 

“Do you regret it?” He asks her after, hoping she doesn't fade from his grasp immediately. He smiles at her as he rubs at the purple marks beginning to blossom on his shoulders, mementos that will surely be gone in the morning. At least he won't have to deal with a blissfully wedded Caramia in the morning, whether or not time does reset.

No, she won't be leaving his side unless time itself pries them apart again. 

She lifts her head from his chest and looks at him with sleepy eyes he'd like to take credit for, but it's probably whatever makes time reset slowly lulling them both to unconsciousness.

"Hmm?"

“Tell me Fuka-chan, how did it feel making me love you and then leaving me behind?”

She tilts her head, yawns. Drops her head back to his chest, muffling her belated reply as she traces foreign shapes onto the skin of his naked abdomen.

“Like tearing apart a puzzle before someone holding the last piece finishes it.”

“Then we're not so different after all, dear.”

He pats her on the head, curling a protective arm around her waist under the covers and inhaling her scent. Like he could remember it. Memorize it just like Caramia, in case she's gone again. Her breath is warm against his skin, even exhalations he counts one by one.

She drifts to sleep in his arms, and he finally closes his eyes for what feels like ages.

 

* * *

 

The next morning he wakes up and his bed is empty, cold. The sheets are barely rumpled. It's early and a cold fog is still over the territory of famiglia Oz, biting into his bones despite the many layers of clothing he’s chosen to wear for the day.

Kyrie looks out his windows to the thicket of trees on the property. The crows hidden in the branches chatter around him amongst themselves and remind him of a time when they were his only companions. A gunshot erupts in the silence and they take flight, a dark mass in the early morning sky. It’s a chilling omen of discord from the forest realms, from the heretics beyond their walls they’ve long since written off. Today will probably be another day of unrest. People will die, discussions will be had, contracts will be renegotiated.

He does not look forward to the massive amounts of paperwork.

Caramia convinces him to come out with him on an early stroll of the territory to assess business relations, despite his somewhat sour attitude he can't place the root of. He accepts the invitation, curiosity getting the better part of him what ill-omen the crows foretold earlier.

And just like every time before, _she’s there._

Panting, her eyes dilated. The delicious tang of her fear nearly palpable in the morning air as— _wait, no_ — this time Caramia doesn’t catch her when he trips her, she sidesteps his foot and runs straight into his arms, clinging to him tightly.

“Mr. Kyrie,” she says breathlessly, burying her face into his neck. _“I found you.”_

Kyrie’s arms wrap tightly around the girl, both foreign and deeply familiar to him, as he closes his eyes. Hopes his unspoken wish was finally granted. That it’s over. That they can be together again. That time will stop repeating.

They both cling to each other, neither caring about Caesar rapidly approaching until Caramia breaks the moment.

 _"Signorina?"_ He asks, and Kyrie opens his eyes to the dumb lion looking at the two of them. Puzzlement deeply etched on his features at his consigliere’s strange behavior. 

Her hand is already in his grip tightly, as leads her in the opposite direction she came. Caramia doesn't have to tell him to escort her to their mansion so he can fight Caesar safely. They're already running through the streets and down the crimson bricks to the Oz mansion, grinning at each other like idiots.

And maybe for once, he's okay with that.

Because this time she's not just a stupid girl, she's the stupid girl _he's in love with._

(The feeling persists.)

**Author's Note:**

> like what you read? come find me on tumblr [@purple-satan-fic](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com) for my fic only blog or [@satan-in-purple](http://satan-in-purple.tumblr.com) to talk otomes. i don't just write for dead fandoms, i'm pretty deep in mystic messenger right now too!
> 
> music for this fic was **my chemical romance - the ghost of you** , which was weirdly appropriate trying to write about the after images of someone being stuck in your head like still frame photographs you constantly question, but idek that's maybe just me...


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